


(take a chance and) give it a try

by stuffy_j



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 4+1 Things, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester's No Good Very Bad Unfortunate Attempts at Sex, Episode Related, Episode: s15e10 The Heroes' Journey, Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, Humor, Interrupting Sam Winchester, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, brief erectile dysfunction, it's like a 5+1 things except shorter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffy_j/pseuds/stuffy_j
Summary: A large part of Dean wants to spend the rest of the evening sulking in his room over his apparently god-given make-out ability being taken away, but Cas won’t let him. “Just because you can’t remember how to do it doesn’t mean you can’t learn again,” he says, and Dean has to admit that’s a strong argument, especially when paired with Cas’ earnest look.Or: Four times Dean's loss of hero status bites him in the ass (not in the good way), and one time he and Cas manage to muddle through. A coda to 15.10.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 97
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	(take a chance and) give it a try

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so glad I managed to finish this, even though it took me FOREVER. Also, let's all just ignore that Dean and Sam go up to Alaska immediately without talking to Cas in 15.11, yeah? Cool. Glad we're all agreed on that.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

0.

They head back to the bunker before going up to Alaska.

“If we’re dealing with Chuck’s Extra Normal Surprise Special,” Sam says, “then we need to make sure we’re prepared. And getting to Alaska is going to take some doing. Let’s do our research first.”

Dean grumbles but agrees, and starts looking into other transportation options. He doesn’t want to risk Baby’s undercarriage on the wintry northern roads, especially not when his very touch seems to make her break down. They also have to make sure that at least one set of their fake passports still work. If Charlie’s golden credit card got shut down, they don’t need to try their luck against the federal government _again_. 

Also, it doesn’t hurt that Cas is back from Heaven and hanging around, doing his own research. “The angels aren’t being particularly helpful,” he’d grumbled when Sam and Dean had (finally) gotten back. “But they haven’t barred me from going back to see what I can find. I’m looking through everything here to see if there’s anything that can help me narrow down the search.”

Dean had nodded and made some vaguely sympathetic noises about research being the pits, but the truth was he was pretty fucking thrilled about Cas being back in the bunker for a bit. Things between them weren’t exactly fixed, but there had been a definite improvement since Purgatory. Lingering glances, familiar touches on the shoulder or back, conversations that didn’t devolve into hostile words and sarcasm within three minutes… Yeah, things were looking a lot better. Not even Sam burning dinner three nights in a row could put a damper on the strange bubble of lightness in Dean’s chest.

Cas takes the news about their onslaught of normal problems with a slightly raised eyebrow and a considering look. “This is a good sign,” he says, ignoring Dean’s irritated squawk, “it means Chuck considers you a true threat, as he should. And these aren’t just regular problems at this point. He’s trying to swamp you. Most normal people don’t have to deal with seventeen cavities at once, or a well-maintained car suddenly and repeatedly breaking down on them. Chuck is trying to break you.” He pauses, thinking for a moment, and Dean feels his heart thump unsteadily in his chest at the familiar sight of Cas’ furrowed brow. “You both know that everything you’ve done before, it’s been because of _you_ , right?” he asks.

Dean feels his mouth drop open on an automatic deflection, but he doesn’t get any words out in time.

“Because up until this point, Chuck has been very adamant about his stance on free will. He’s played by his own rules, so to speak,” Cas continues. “It’s only now that you’re going directly against his desires that he’s changing things and trying to trip the two of you up.”

“Makes sense,” Sam nods, and then sneezes.

“Are you sick _again_?” Dean demands, and gets a baleful glare in response. “I’ll go get the cayenne.”

1.

He knows they definitely need to talk more, have a few more heart-to-hearts and maybe another couple of fights to get it all out, but in the week before they head out for Alaska, Dean finds himself gravitating to Cas. He knows Cas wasn’t gone all that long after their quote-unquote _break up_ , but the larger part of him doesn’t care. Now that Cas is back and is _looking_ at him again, Dean wants to soak up as much of him as he can.

The ache that had blossomed under his ribs the moment the bunker door had shut behind Cas finally feels like it’s starting to dissipate, which Dean is grateful for, only to be replaced by a different ache. A hungrier ache. Dean’s hands tremble with the need to reach out and touch Cas, to hold him. To embrace him like he had in Purgatory, and never let go.

He lets his touches linger, instead. A hand on Cas’ elbow when he passes by him in the bunker’s archives. A firm pat to the shoulder that stays longer than it should. Dragging his hand across the wide plane of Cas’ back as he drops off a mug of coffee next to Cas’ elbow where he’s working at the map table. 

Cas notices. Dean can tell he does, from the way his eyes go wide and then considering, from the way he can feel Cas’ gaze follow him across the room. Dean darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip, trying to hide a grin as he feels Cas’ eyes burrow into his back as he walks away.

And then promptly trips over a discarded book, cursing as he tries to regain his balance without breaking his fucking elbow, _christ_.

Cas is there, suddenly, his grip steady and _strong_ , fuck, preventing Dean from crashing to the floor. His face is close, too, closer than he’s been in a long while, his eyes deep and blue, and Dean can’t stop himself even though this is some sort of corny-ass rom-com set-up of a moment. He closes his eyes and presses up just enough to slide their lips together, familiar and new all at once, fireworks bursting in his stomach as he feels Cas kissing back. 

He’d missed this so much, missed the feel of Cas’ lips on his, their stubble brushing together, the… sloppy wetness?

Dean’s eyes pop open in consternation just as Cas yelps and yanks his head back, accidentally dropping Dean in the process. There are visible teeth marks embedded in his lower lip. “You bit me,” he says, somewhere between a question and an accusation. 

Dean stares up at him, his ass aching (and not in a good way) from the sudden collision with the floor. That was the worst kiss he’s had since he was 16 years old and still learning what to do. 

A horrible prospect crosses his mind, and he knows Cas is thinking the same thing at the look of shock that flashes across his face.

“Have I only been good at kissing because of _Chuck_?!”

2\. 

A large part of Dean wants to spend the rest of the evening sulking in his room over his apparently god-given makeout ability being taken away, but Cas won’t let him. “Just because you can’t remember how to do it doesn’t mean you can’t learn again,” he says, and Dean has to admit that’s a strong argument, especially when paired with Cas’ earnest look. 

It doesn’t hurt that Cas had an especially thorough teacher, either, so at least _he_ knows what he’s doing. _Maybe it’s not all bad,_ Dean thinks as Cas kisses him again. 

“This is so fucking embarrassing,” Dean grumbles as he somehow manages to accidentally bite Cas again, and not in a good way. His lips are wet, too, and he scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to get rid of the sensation. “I can’t believe God specifically hates me so much that he made me bad at _kissing_!”

“It is an odd thing to hold against you,” Cas says, not disagreeing with him. Dean tamps down on the automatic _you’re an odd thing to hold against you_ that nearly slips out, but he holds it together, somehow. Maybe he’s hit his threshold for embarrassing himself today.

Probably not, though, knowing his life. 

“Shit,” Dean suddenly realizes, “what if I’m bad at _sex_ now, too?” He sits down heavily on his bed, trying to wrap his mind around this sudden revelation.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Do you really think Chuck would put that much effort into inconveniencing you?” he asks.

“Dude, he gave me _seventeen_ cavities at the same time,” Dean hisses. “Chuck’s a petty son of a bitch, I wouldn’t put it past him!”

Cas considers this with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right.” He crosses his arms and looks around the room, like he’s trying to figure out a particularly difficult problem. Maybe how to get out of this conversation.

Dean considers how quickly he could suffocate himself with one of the pillows on his bed currently. Not that long, probably. Hell, with the way things were going, he might even be able to actually do it. Or would he _not_ be able to do it, because he wanted to? Fuck, his head hurts.

He can’t stop thinking about it now, his mind prodding at the idea like a sore tooth (ha, he should start a stand-up routine). “We need to have sex,” he blurts out before he can stop the words, immediately wants to stuff them back into his mouth. Because anyone else in their situation would say no, that they were moving too fast, they were both still vulnerable and aching from the past few months. 

“Okay,” Cas says, easy, steps back into Dean’s space and touches his face with his big hands, cradling it, making Dean stand back up, like this is the next obvious logical step, like he isn’t turning Dean’s world completely upside-down with one word. Like this is something he wants to do, giving _this_ to Dean. Like there’s time to fix things later, and they can deal with this first.

“Okay,” Dean echoes, a little dazed, leans into the kiss because how can he not, even when it’ll probably be bad? And this one is… well, it’s nearly good, actually, their mouths sliding together, Cas’ lips a little chapped against his own, stubble brushing against his cheek. Dean tries to keep himself in check, keep his lips closed so he can’t ruin the kiss, but when Cas presses his tongue into his mouth, he lets himself fall into it with a moan, hands coming up to grip at Cas’ shoulders. The kiss turns from good to great, actually, and Dean loses himself a little bit, closing his eyes as Cas bites down on his lower lip. Not hard, not painful, but the way he knows Dean likes it, the way he knows will make Dean gasp into Cas’ mouth. 

There’s a hand in Dean’s hair, tugging his head gently to the side so Cas can kiss a hot line up Dean’s neck, tuck a bruise into the hollow where his jaw meets his ear, breath warm and heated against Dean’s skin. Dean’s hands fumble for a moment before finding the belt loops of Cas’ pants, pulling their hips together finally, _finally_. A moan tumbles from his lips at the feeling of Cas’ hardness digging into his thigh, presses his own into the hard line of Cas’ hip and grinds. 

“Bed,” he manages to grit out, blinking up at the ceiling because Cas has tipped his head back and is pressing sucking kisses down his throat, stretching the collar of Dean’s t-shirt like he’s asked Cas _not_ to do a million times, but the bastard never seems to care-- “C’mon, bed,” Dean says again, ignores how it comes out on the edge of a whine. He starts backing up, trying to go slow, not wanting to lose the feeling of Cas pressed up against him, Cas kissing him slow and deep and dirty.

Dean’s heel knocks against something and sends it tumbling to the floor with a clink, and his brain has just enough time to think _well, fuck_ as he steps on an empty beer bottle and slips.

His nose collides painfully with Cas’ chin, and something feels like it’s snapped in his knee as he goes down with a shout. His bruised tailbone from earlier flares as he lands on the hard floor (again). He thinks he knocks his head into the edge of the bed frame, but he’s not really sure, but the sharp pain at the base of his skull confirms it.

The wayward beer bottle rolls into his hand, gently knocking against his fingers. _Should’ve cleaned up_ , he thinks, thoughts a little hazy through the bright pain. His knee feels like there are several knives embedded in it. “Ow,” he says.

One of Cas’ hands touches his face, and Dean realizes that Cas is saying words. He makes himself tune in. “--Dean,” he hears Cas say, worry tumbling through his voice, “Dean, are you alright? Dean!”

Dean blinks, and everything rushes back in, sharp, and he hisses. There’s pain thumping at the base of his skull, shocking up his spine, thrumming in his knee when he so much as thinks about moving it. “I’m good,” he grunts, because he is, he’s gotten up from worse than this, and they were _so close_ to sex, so close to falling back together. He can feel the moment slipping away even as he clutches at it desperately. “Just give me a sec--”

He knows he doesn’t have a concussion but even the low lighting in his bedroom seems too bright for his eyes, and the moment he tries to put even the slightest amount of pressure on his knee fire shoots through it, and he collapses back to the floor.

“Dean!” Cas says again, kneeling down next to him, and his eyes are wide and dark and panicked, and Dean hates how many times he’s seen that look on his face. Then there’s a hand, huge and warm, settling on his knee, and Dean has to bite back a yelp against the initial pain of the touch before it’s soothed by the icy-hot sweep of grace that’s so incredibly familiar at this point. 

Only it doesn’t feel as strong this time, and when Dean looks back up at Cas, his face looks tight, like it’s taking too much to do what should be as simple as breathing for an angel. _My powers are failing,_ Dean remembers him saying, and he puts a hand over Cas’, gently pushes it off his knee. It’s not a hundred percent, but he can put weight on it again, and that’s all that matters right now. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, shakes his head as Cas opens his mouth to protest. “You gotta save it, man. Don’t waste it on my clumsy ass right now.”

“It’s not a waste,” Cas says, but he leans back, getting to his feet and helping Dean up. His knee twinges a bit, and his head still aches, but Dean pushes it all down so he can look into Cas’ eyes, then at the scattered bottles on the ground. 

His mouth twists and he raises a hand to scrub against the back of his neck. “Guess I ruined the mood,” he says with a dry chuckle.

Cas raises his eyebrows at him. “We can always start again,” he says mildly.

Dean waves it off. “Nah. Maybe later. I’m gonna go get an ice pack and a drink.” He holds open the bedroom door, looks at Cas expectantly. “You coming?”

Cas huffs a laugh, gives Dean one of those small, private smiles he loves. “Of course.”

3\. 

Ibuprofen is the greatest thing ever created by man, and Dean wakes up a few days later without any residual pain in his knee. He thinks about doing a little jig in celebration, but stops. The way things are going, he’d somehow manage to trip on nothing and do some real damage this time. 

Thankfully, things have been mostly quiet in the hunting world while Dean and Sam have been out of commission, so to speak. When anything does pop up, they’re able to call someone else to handle it, which makes Dean chafe a bit, but it’s better than getting dead. And spending a few days resting in the bunker is actually pretty nice. With Cas back and actually talking to him, it all feels so much… lighter than it did before. Less empty. Like Dean can breathe again.

It’s another quiet morning when Sam takes his laptop into his room to catch up with Eileen (“Have a good _chat_ , Sammy.” “Leave me alone, Dean.”), leaving Dean and Cas to scour the library for anything at all about this place in Alaska Garth mentioned. After going through what feels like a solid sixty percent of the books in the room, Dean gives up with a groan, flopping his head back and staring up at the ceiling.

“Something wrong, Dean?” Cas questions mildly, not even looking up from the dusty, leather bound tome he’s holding in his hands. Idly, Dean wonders why every single book the Men of Letters ever collected seem to be only bound in leather. Maybe they had really strict aesthetic rules. An official Men of Letters style guide. There’s probably a copy of it somewhere in the library, bound in musty leather and detailing exactly how high up they all had to wear their sock garters.

“Dean?” 

“Hm?” Dean sits up, the book in his lap sliding to the floor with a thwap. “Whoops,” he says, then realizes that Cas is talking to him. “Oh. Just bored out of my skull.” He gestures at the discarded piles of books around them. “We’ve been through all this stuff and haven’t even found a _hint_ of this place where you can get your luck back or whatever. I’m starting to think Garth made it up, or heard it from someone who did.”

Cas sighs and puts his book down on the table, turning to face Dean fully, who is once again struck by the realization of just how _broad_ Cas’ shoulders are, outlined by his trenchcoat. The thought makes his heart pound oddly in his chest.

“This is… tedious,” Cas admits. “Maybe this pool hall is more recent than the Men of Letters’ historical records can account for.”

Dean groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, pushing hard enough that multicolored lights burst behind his eyelids. “Alright,” he says. “I need a break. Anything but this right now.” He stands up and stretches, listening to the pops in his back. “Want a beer?”

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“And? I asked if you want a beer, not what time it is.” 

Cas rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling, but there’s a smile caught in the corners of his mouth, and when he stands up, Dean knows he’s won. “Alright. One beer.”

“Hell yeah.” Dean swivels around and heads towards the kitchen, Cas a few steps behind him. There’s a fresh six-pack in the fridge sitting next to a box of leftover pizza that Cas had picked up the night before, since Dean trusted no one to cook for the time being. He pops the caps and hands one to Cas, a now-familiar ritual between the two of them. Cas’ fingers brush his as he takes the bottle, the touch sending a shiver up his spine and loosening the knot between his shoulders at the same time. The beer is cold and sharp on his tongue as he takes a sip, watching from the corner of his eye as Cas does the same. Watches the small wrinkle appear between Cas’ eyebrows as it always does whenever Cas tries human food because _it’s all just molecules to me, Dean. I can’t taste anything but the molecules_. 

Not that that stops him these days. Dean thinks he might even like the taste of coffee at this point. It might all be molecules, but Dean wants Cas to find molecules he actually likes.

His heart constricts in his chest, and he tilts the bottle back, taking a long drink to distract himself. That’s the kind of sappy bullshit he’s not sure he’s allowed anymore with Cas, not since their fight. Purgatory had patched up the major tear between them, but Dean knew there were still jagged rifts and cracks between them that needed fixing. And it was on him. Cas seemed content to let things lay as they were, for the most part. To let Dean figure out where, and how, to take that first step forward.

Except--

Cas is looking at him, eyes lingering on the taut line of Dean’s throat, dipping down to the hint of collarbone, traveling back up to the curve of his cheek. Dean is suddenly extremely aware of how his lips must look, wrapped around the mouth of the bottle, and it sends a hot pulse of want through his stomach. He sucks on the bottle, just lightly enough to hollow his cheeks, and watches as Cas’ eyes darken, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around his own bottle. Dean lowers his beer, purposefully lets it spill a few drops of amber liquid to pool in the divot of his lower lip.

He watches Cas carefully as he slips out his tongue and licks it up.

And Cas’ powers may be waning, but he’s still an angel, Dean reminds himself as he’s suddenly pushed up against the counter behind him, Cas pressed up against him in a long, hot line, tongue slipping past his lips before Dean even realizes he’s being kissed. He fumbles a bit, sets his beer down carefully on the counter--away from him and Cas, he’s learned his lesson, thank you very much--and leans into it, opens his mouth on a sigh as Cas’ hand curls through his hair, grip just on the right side of pain and pleasure. Cas’ other hand is curling around the base of his throat, thumb stroking the thin skin on the side of his neck, and he makes a satisfied noise that nearly liquifies Dean’s knees.

There’s a hot bubble of want in the pit of Dean’s stomach, his own hands delving beneath Cas’ ever-present coat and suit jacket to scrabble at his tucked-in shirt. He pulls it up, rests his hands on the warm skin of Cas’ sides, sharp hip bones melding with muscle. 

Cas groans and pulls back, only to kiss up Dean’s throat, which has Dean panting and widening his stance, trying to bring as much of their bodies into contact as he can. “Fuck,” he grits out, heat coursing through him. Cas is hard against his hip, the line of his dick obvious even through several layers of clothing, and Dean’s mouth waters a little bit, thinks about sinking to his (slightly aching) knees to wrap his lips around it the way he’d just done to the bottle. 

The hand in his hair travels down, pushing between their bodies so Cas can palm Dean’s dick through his pants. Dean’s not hard yet, but the sensation makes him hiss, sending a jolt straight up his spine. He feels Cas smile against his throat, the hint of teeth and tongue telling him there’s going to be marks tomorrow.

Cas strokes his hand over Dean’s clothed dick again, and Dean has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from whining. He’s still soft, but it feels so good--almost a little painful, even. Over-stimulated. Cas unbuttons the top of Dean’s jeans and slips his hand inside, wraps it around Dean’s cock, hand feeling hot and huge over Dean’s soft flesh.

Dean grunts and grabs Cas’ face, brings him up for another kiss, desperate and sloppy. It’s probably not a good kiss, too wet and Dean definitely bites Cas’ lip, but he doesn’t seem to care, just murmurs, “Dean,” low and urgent into the space between them. 

“Dean,” he says again, and Dean huffs a groan and tries to focus on the sensation of Cas stroking him, callused flesh warm and a little dry as he strokes Dean. Maybe a little too dry--they should think about moving this to the bedroom, soon. 

But then Cas’ hand stops moving, and Dean pulls back with a frown. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Cas is staring down between them, brows knit tightly, and Dean realizes that he’s still… soft. Like “I’ve been reading about horrible witch rituals and all their nasty bodily fluids for the past three hours” soft. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” Cas asks, confusion seeping through his tone.

Dean shakes his head quickly. “No, no! I’m super turned on, I swear. I don’t--I don’t know what’s wrong.” Embarrassment rushes through him, a sickly hot rush that makes his palms sweat. Normally, Cas makes him feel like a 20-something again, getting hard at the hint of a stiff breeze. He’s never had a problem in the past with him.

Cas drops his hand and steps back a bit, and Dean mourns the loss of contact, but stuffs himself back inside his jeans and does them up. He can feel the telltale heat of a blush creeping up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Do you think this is Chuck?” he asks, the sudden horror hitting him like a sack of bricks thrown from a fourth-story window. “Is God making my dick limp?”

Cas makes a face like he just bit into an entire lemon, peel and all. “Well,” he starts, an uncharacteristic hesitation in his voice, “it’s possible.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Dean growls.

“We may also need to consider the fact that you’re getting older, Dean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

Cas sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. Dean’s gonna have to wash that shit later. “It means you’re human. And humans grow older, and sometimes have erectile issues. It doesn’t mean Chuck is specifically causing those problems. You are forty-one years old, after all.”

“Wh--Cas! Come on, Chuck made me _bad at kissing_! He probably did this, too, ‘cause he hates me!” Dean splutters. His ears feel bright red.

Cas rolls his eyes, but steps forward and pulls Dean into a kiss, soft and short and sweet. “We’ll figure it out,” he promises.

And Dean believes him.

4\. 

They’re leaving for Alaska in two days, come hell or high water, because Dean is sick of this shit. He’s sick of biting into a meal and being reminded of all his new, tender fillings. He’s tired of trying to heat up a simple bag of popcorn and nearly setting the kitchen on fire. Most of all, he’s sick of second-guessing himself every time he tries to kiss Cas, wondering if his continued bad luck will hold and end up in an injury or, worse, an unsatisfactory experience.

At this moment, though, everything seems to be going right, and Dean should probably be suspicious about that, but he’s finding it hard to care. Because Cas is laid out before him on the bed, shirt unbuttoned and hair a mess from where Dean’s been running his fingers through it. He’s straddling Cas, working their hips together in short, jerky thrusts as they kiss, and they’re both still wearing their boxers but it’s fine, it’s amazing actually, the heat and pressure growing exponentially between them, the friction just this side of _fantastic_. 

Cas bites at his bottom lip, licks into his mouth, and Dean will never get over how expansive Cas’ kisses are, how open and lush he makes himself, teasing noises out of Dean that he would never admit to in front of anyone else. The bed creaks beneath them as Dean rolls his hips down, shudders at the feeling of Cas’ hardness against his own, the way Cas’ muscles jump under Dean’s fingers as he palms his sides. They’ve been at this for what feels like hours, soft, slow kisses devolving into dry-humping on the bed like literal teenagers.

One of Cas’ hands shifts, slides down Dean’s spine to the waistband of his boxers, fingers teasing against the curve of his lower back, and it’s like every touch is a flame against his skin. Dean grunts, pressing back into the touch, and he feels Cas’ lips curve into a smile against his own. 

“Needy,” Cas admonishes, voice low and soft between them. Dean whines lightly, which makes Cas smile into their kiss again.

“C’mon,” Dean huffs, rolling his hips more firmly into Cas’ own, closing his eyes against the feeling of their cocks rubbing together, even through the fabric between them. “C’mon, Cas, it’s been forever.”

“Hm.” Cas must agree, because his hand slips into Dean’s underwear, taking a handful of his asscheek and squeezing firmly. Breath stutters in Dean’s chest, and his lungs feel like they’re burning as one of Cas’ long, thick fingers press against his hole, the dry pressure suddenly all he can focus on. Cas’ other hand is there too, suddenly, tugging at the waistband of his boxers, and Dean struggles to lift himself up enough that Cas can pull them down.

Evidently he doesn’t do it fast enough, because Cas glares up at him and suddenly Dean is on his back and his boxers have been thrown across the room, he thinks. Cas is looming over him, blocking out the light from the lamp behind them, a golden glow lining his skin, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat for a moment. With his wild hair and broad shoulders, Cas looks every inch the avenging angel in this moment. There’s a tug of whitehot lust at the base of his spine at that thought, and Dean shifts his legs open on the bed, an invitation. A request.

Cas obliges and leans down for another consuming kiss, then drags his mouth down the line of Dean’s jaw, pressing sucking kisses down his throat to his chest. He flicks his tongue over one of Dean’s nipples, biting it lightly and tugging. It makes Dean groan deep in his chest, and he throws his head back into the pillow.

“Dean?”

There’s a knock at the door, and Dean has half a second to realize that they _didn’t lock it_ when it swings open and Sam steps inside, frowning down at a book in his hands. “So get this,” he says, and then looks directly into Dean’s eyes over Cas’ shoulder.

Cas must not have heard the door swing open or anything that Sam said, because he grinds his hips forward into Dean’s again, clearly annoyed by the fact that Dean has suddenly frozen. It drags a horrible, desperate moan from Dean’s mouth, and things seem to be moving in slow motion as the book drops from Sam’s hands, landing on the floor with a resounding thwap.

“Oh, fuck, I am so sorry!” Sam squeaks, _squeaks_ , and Dean would find that funnier if he weren’t about to explode from mortification. His throat works but no sound comes out, and Cas isn’t moving above him, completely still like a statue. 

For a moment, Dean stutters incomprehensibly, and then finally the synapses between his brain and his mouth snap together again. “Get out!” he yells at Sam, who is still standing in the doorway looking like the world’s largest, dumbest deer caught in the headlights. “You don’t just barge into people’s rooms! Get the fuck out!”

“Lock your door!” Sam sputters, but he stumbles away, muttering something about bleach.

Once he’s out of earshot, Dean grabs a pillow from behind his head and presses it over his face, letting the fluffy darkness overtake him. Above him, Cas shifts to sit beside him on the bed. Dean mourns the loss of contact, but he understands. His boner is pretty effectively dead at this point, and he doesn’t think he can get it up again any time soon. He presses the pillow into his face a little more firmly.

“Dean?” Cas asks carefully. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Dean says, muffled by the pillow. “I’m just gonna smother myself and get it over with already.”

The pillow lifts up and out of his grip as Cas puts it on the floor. “I don’t see how you suffocating yourself helps matters.”

“God hates me,” Dean whines, doesn’t care that he sounds so pathetic.

“So you’re giving up because your brother saw you in a compromising position?”

Dean sighs. When Cas puts it that way, it’s not the _worst_ thing that’s ever happened to him. “Well, when you put it like that,” he grumbles, and sits up. It may not be the worst, but it might make the short list. At this point, though, even the short list of bad things that’ve happened to him is getting pretty damn long. He sighs again, drops his head into his hands. “I just want this to be over,” he admits.

The bed shifts as Cas presses a kiss to Dean’s shoulder. “We all do. If we get going, it might be over sooner.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dean says, exhaustion settling into his bones like a weighted blanket. “I’m gonna take a nap first, though. You should… you should stay, if you want.” He swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat. Asking Cas to stay shouldn’t be difficult, and yet… 

Cas nods but stands up, and Dean feels a flicker of hope snuff out in his chest, because he should’ve expected this. It’s not like Cas needs to sleep or anything. But he just goes over to the lightswitch and flicks it off, plunging the room into a comfortable darkness, and then he settles himself back down on the bed. His eyes glint in the low light coming from the alarm clock on Dean’s nightstand. 

“Rest well, Dean.”

There’s a warm, fuzzy, aching feeling somewhere deep in Dean’s chest as he lays down. “Yeah, you too.”

+1.

Dean knew they had to get it right one of these times.

He shudders as he twists his hips down, pulling a groan from both of them as he takes Cas deep again, the library chair shaking a bit beneath them. Maybe they should have learned their lesson from yesterday, when Sam walked in on them, but Dean had seen an opportunity and dammit if he was going to waste it. Sam had gone on one last supply run, and Dean had caught the wicked glint in Cas’ eyes the moment the bunker door had shut behind Sam’s back. They hadn’t even made it back to Dean’s room: Cas had pressed Dean up against the wall of the library instead, solid and heavy between his thighs, mouth open and wet as they kissed.

There’s a sharp creak from the chair as Dean lifts himself up, holding on desperately to the back for leverage. Cas bites a line of kisses across his collarbone and up his neck, his hands warm and solid as they grip Dean’s hips, keeping him grounded. Keeping him steady. Cas won’t let him go too fast, which Dean loves and hates at the same time. He desperately wants to let go, to take Cas as fast and deep as he can, but this is amazing, too, raising himself up slow only to roll back down, hard. 

Cas had opened him up with his fingers and tongue, on his knees while Dean had scrabbled at the cold walls of the bunker, trying to keep himself upright. The sneaky fucker had also tucked a thing of lube into one of the pockets of his trench coat, which made Dean choke out a laugh when he’d felt the cold shock of it as Cas slipped a finger into him. “You expecting this?” he’d asked around a moan, his legs shaking as Cas carefully bit the inside of his thigh.

“No, but I know to be prepared with you,” he’d admonished, which made Dean nearly double over with laughter. Cas retaliated by pressing a second finger inside of him, the burn hot and fast and _good_ , so good.

After what felt like ages of Cas stretching him out, they’d stumbled over to the chair, parting only to shed as much clothing as they had to before collapsing onto it. The chair was barely sturdy enough to take both of them, creaking ominously and shuddering beneath them, but Dean found it hard to care, not when Cas was lining himself up carefully and sliding inside, guiding Dean’s hips down until he was settled in Cas’ lap. 

Cas’ lips are a brand against Dean’s skin, burning him from the outside in, and he still has his fucking dress shirt on, but at least the collar is open, the tie thrown halfway across the room, probably. One of Cas’ big hands slips around to the small of Dean’s back, rests against the sweat-slick skin there, pinky finger nudging the top of his crack. His other hand wraps around Dean’s dick, grip almost too tight but exactly what Dean needs, panting and gasping as he lifts himself up again then grinds back down.

“C’mon,” he groans, feeling split open, lifts Cas’ face up to kiss him, spit-slick and messy. “Cas, please--”

“What do you need?” Cas asks him, sliding his fist up Dean’s dick and twisting at the head. He bites, open-mouthed, at the cord of Dean’s neck. “Tell me, Dean.”

Dean tries to concentrate, the muscles in his thighs starting to burn as he rises up off of Cas’ cock, pressure building at the base of his spine. “Fuck me, Cas, c’mon,” he begs, “please, more, I can’t--!” 

He cuts himself off with a gasp as Cas’ hand on his back slides lower, the tip of one lube-slick finger nudging against where he’s already stretched wide. It’ll burn, and Dean will ache tomorrow, but suddenly it’s all he wants, and he nods desperately, says, “Yeah, do it, please. Want you to,” and Cas catches him in another kiss, tongue slipping hot into Dean’s mouth, shutting him up. 

Cas fucks his hips up once, twice, drinking in Dean’s moans as his finger presses lightly against his entrance, more exploratory than anything. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ neck, tucks his face into the hollow behind Cas’ ear, gasping hotly, hips twitching as he waits. “So good,” he hears Cas murmur, and a fuzzy beam of pleasure arcs through him at the words.

And then Cas says, “Relax, Dean,” and he nudges the tip of his finger inside, pressed up against his cock, and Dean comes with a shout, body stiffening as whitehot light bursts inside of him, clouding his vision. He feels Cas stroke his dick through it, and it’s nearly too much, too good, and he feels like he’s shaking out of his body. 

When he comes back to himself, Cas is holding him tightly, face pressed against Dean’s throat. He feels Dean shift and leans back a little, looking into his eyes, gaze soft and searching. Dean marvels at the man--the _angel_ \--staring up at him, the ring of unearthly blue taken over by black in his eyes, and he kisses him, bites the well of Cas’ lower lip. Says, “C’mon, Cas, fuck me,” and squeezes around Cas’ still-hard dick as best he can.

It makes Cas gasp and close his eyes, thrusting his hips up sharply, burying himself in Dean, who opens his mouth on a moan, letting his head tip back. This is his favorite part--after he’s come, when he gets to feel Cas chase his own pleasure, take what he needs from Dean’s body with abandon. The chair creaks and shifts as Cas fucks up and into Dean over and over, arms wrapped around Dean’s waist, and Dean lets himself tip his head back, eyes closed as Cas loses himself. He groans with Cas as he feels him spill inside him, hot and thick and wet, Cas murmuring Dean’s name like it’s a prayer, like it’s a benediction. 

Something swoops inside of Dean’s ribcage, and he holds Cas through it, feels Cas shake apart in his arms.

Four months ago, Dean didn’t think he’d ever get to have this again, and if you’d asked him then he’d have said he was fine with that. He was too angry, too grief-stricken to realize what he was pushing away.

Now, with Cas sucking an aching bruise to the hollow just below his collarbone, arms wrapped around Dean like he’s afraid to let go, Dean can’t believe he ever thought pushing Cas away was a good idea.

And then the chair gives one loud, final crack, and collapses beneath them, sending them tumbling to the cold, hard floor with twin grunts. Cas’ elbow drives into Dean’s sternum, punching the air out of his lungs, and he thinks he accidentally kicks Cas in the side as he flails. For a moment, Dean lays there, staring up at the ceiling, dazed. And then he bursts out laughing, the sound bubbling up through his core and spilling out, drawing a few chuckles from Cas as well.

“Even when we get it right, something happens,” Dean says, slapping a hand to his forehead incredulously. 

“I think we can safely say that one was on us,” Cas responds, pushing himself upright and extending a hand down to him. Dean grabs it and stands up, doesn’t drop Cas’ grip. Cas smiles at him, twists their clasped hands so he can press a tender kiss to the back of Dean’s. “We should clean this up.”

“Later,” Dean says. “Shower time first.”

(When Sam gets back an hour later, the chair is still in pieces on the floor. “Dean? Cas?” he calls, worried. “Everything okay?”

Dean and Cas appear from down the hall, hair mussed and still a little wet. “Just peachy, Sammy,” Dean says, turning a grin towards Cas.

“Oh,” Sam says, then wrinkles his nose, looking back down at the broken chair. “Gross.”

Dean laughs.)

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/stuffy_jj)


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